Cross My Heart and Hope to Spy
by Holodeck of Fame
Summary: After giving up her first boyfriend, Finn, Rachel Berry wants a peaceful semester. But that's easier said than done when you go to Carmel Academy, a prestigious school for spies. Besides, who is this mysterious boy that seems to follow her everywhere?
1. Chapter ONE: A Trip to the Mall

**AN: Hey everyone, so for the last month I've been meaning to make up a story of mine but alas! I can't think of any genuine idea to turn into a fanfic. But yesterday while I was eating breakfast an idea struck me. I would basically just re-write Cross My Heart and Hope to Spy, which is an installment from the Gallagher Girls Series. I wanted to make it a Puckleberry fic but I can't fit Puck into Zach's role and besides Jesse seems more mysterious than Puck. **

**Forgive me if the first chapter is almost the same with the original because I'm just starting. So... I hope I don't get sued. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Glee. I'm merely borrowing the characters made up by Ryan Murphy and**** I also don't own Gallagher Girls, Ally Carter owns it.**

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><p>Chapter <strong>ONE<strong>

"Just be yourself," my mother said, as if that were easy. Which it isn't. Ever. Especially not when you're sixteen and don't know what language you're going to have to speak at lunch, or what name you'll have to use the next time you do a "project" for extra credit. Not when your nickname is "Inconspicuous Berry".

Not when you go to a school for spies.

Of course, if you're reading this, you probably have at least a Level Four clearance and know all about the Carmel Academy for Exceptional Young Women – that it isn't really a boarding school for privileged girls, and that, despite our gorgeous mansion and manicured grounds, we're not snobs. We're spies. But on that January day, even my mother…even my _headmistress_…seemed to have forgotten that when you've spent your whole life learning fourteen different languages and how to completely alter your appearance using nothing but nail clippers and shoe polish, then being yourself gets a little harder – that we Carmel Girls are really far better at being someone else.

(And we've got the fake IDs to prove it.)

My mother slipped her arm around me and whispered, "It's going to be okay, kiddo," as she guided me through the crowds of shoppers that filled Pentagon City Mall. Security cameras tracked our every move, but still my mother said, "It's fine. It's protocol. It's normal."

But ever since I was four years old and inadvertently cracked a Sapphire Series NSA code my dad had brought home after a mission to Singapore, it had been pretty obvious that the term _normal_ would probably never apply to e.

After all, normal girls probably love going to the mall with their pockets full of Christmas money. Normal girls don't get summoned to D.C. on the last day of winter break. And normal girls very rarely feel like hyperventilating when their mothers pull a pair of jean off a rack and tell the saleslady, "Excuse me, my daughter would like to try these on."

I felt anything but normal as the saleslady searched my eyes for some hidden clue. "Have you tried the ones form Milan?" she asked. "I hear the European styles are very flattering."

Beside me, my mother fingered the soft denim. "Yes, I used to have a pair like this, but they got ruined at the cleaners."

And then the saleslady pointed down a narrow hallway. A hint of smile was on her face. "I believe dressing room number _seven_ is available." She started to walk away, and then turned back to me and whispered, "Good luck."

And I totally knew I was going to need it.

We walked together down the narrow hall, and once we were inside the dressing room my mother closed the door. Our eyes met in the mirror, and she said, "Are you ready?"

And then I did the thing we Carmel Girls are best at – I lied. "Sure."

We pressed our palms at the cool, smooth mirror and felt the glass grow warm beneath our skin.

"You're going to do great," Mom said, as if being myself wouldn't be so hard or so terrible. As if I hadn't spent my entire life wanting to be _her_.

And then the ground beneath us started to shake.

The walls rose as the floor sank. Bright lights flashed white, burning my eyes. I reached dizzily for my mother's arm.

"Just a body scan," she said reassuringly, and the elevator continued its descent farther and farther beneath the city. A wave of hot air blasted my face like the world's biggest hair dryer. "Biohazard detectors," Mom explained as we continued our smooth, quick ride.

Time seemed to stand still, but I knew to count the seconds. One minute. Two minutes…

"Almost there," Mom said. We descended through a thin laser beam that read our retinal images. Moments later, a bright orange light pulsed, and I felt the elevator stop. The doors slid open.

And then my mouth went slack.

Tiles made of black granite and white marble stretched across the floor of the cavernous space like a life-sized chessboard. Twin staircases twisted form opposite corners of the massive room, spiraling forty feet to the second story, framing a granite wall that bore the silver seal of the CIA and the motto I know by heart:

_And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free._

As I stepped forward I saw elevators – dozens of them – lining the wall that curved behind us. Stainless steel letters above from which we'd just emerged spelled out WOMEN'S WEAR, MALL. To the right, another was labeled MEN'S ROOM, ROSLYN METRO STATION.

A screen on tip of the elevator flashed our names. SHELBY CORCORAN, DEPARTMENT OF OPERATIVE DEVELOPMENT. I glanced at Mom as the screen changed. RACHEL BERRY, TEMPORARY GUEST.

There was a loud ding, and soon KEN TANAKA, IDENTIFYING CHARACTERISTICS REMOVAL DIVISION was emerging from the elevator labeled SAINT SEBASTIAN CONFESSIONAL, at which point I totally started freaking out – but not in the total diva way. No, my freak out was purely of the "this is so cool" sense, because, despite three and half years of training, I'd temporarily forgotten why we were here.

"Come on, sweetie," Mom said, taking m hand and pulling me through the atrium, where people climbed purposely up the spiraling stairs. They carried newspapers and chatted over cups of coffee. It was almost…normal. But then Mom approached a guard who was missing half his nose and one ear, and I thought about how when you're a Carmel Girl, normal is a completely relative thing.

"Welcome ladies," the guard said. "Place your palms here." He indicated the smooth counter in front of him, and as soon as we touched the surface I felt the heat of the scanner that was memorizing my prints. A mechanical printer sprang to life somewhere, and the guard leaned down to retrieve two badges.

"Well, Shelby Corcoran," he said, looking at my mother as if she hadn't been standing right in front of him for a full minute, "welcome back! And this must be little…" The man squinted, trying to read the badge in his hand.

"This is my daughter, Rachel."

"Of course she is! She looks just like you." Which just proved that whatever terrible nose incident he experienced had no doubt affected his eyes, too, because while Shelby Corcoran has frequently been described as beautiful, _I_ am usually described as nondescript. "Strap this on, young lady," the guard said, handing me the ID badge. "And don't lose it – it's loaded with a tracking chip and half milligram of C-4. If you try to remove it or enter an unauthorized area, it'll detonate." He stared at me. "And then you'll die."

I swallowed hard, and then suddenly understood why take-your-daughter-to-work day was never really and option in the Berry family.

"Okay," I muttered, taking the badge gingerly. Then the man slapped the counter, and – spy training or not – I jumped.

"Ha!" the guard let out a sharp laugh and leaned closer to my mother. "The Carmel Academy is growing them more gullible that it did in my day, Shelby," he teased then winked at me. "Spy humor."

Well, personally, I didn't think his "humor" was all that funny, but my mother smiled and took my arm again. "Come on, kiddo, you don't want to be late."

She led me down a sunny corridor that made it almost impossible to believe we were underground. Bright, cool light splashed the gray walls and reminded me of Sublevel One at school…which reminded me of my Covert Operations class…which reminded me of finals week…which reminded me of…

Finn.

We passed the Office of Guerilla Warfare but didn't slow down. Two women waved to my mother outside the Department of Cover and Concealment, but we didn't stop to chat.

We walked faster, going deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of secrets, until the corridor branched and we could go either left, toward the Department of Sabotage and Seemingly Accidental Explosions, or right, to the Office of Operative Development and Human Intelligence. And despite the FLAME-RESISTANT BODYSUITS MANDATORY BEYOND THIS POINT sign marking the hallway to my left, I'd much rather have gone in that direction or just back to the mall. Anywhere but where I knew I had to go.

Because even though the truth can set you free, that doesn't mean it won't be painful.

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><p>"My name is Rachel."<p>

"No, what's your _full_ name?" asked the man in front of the polygraph machine, as if I weren't wearing the aforementioned (and supposedly non-explosive) name badge.

I thought about my mother's words of wisdom and took a deep breath. "Rachel Barbra Berry."

The room around me was completely bare, except for a stainless steel table, two chairs, and a mirror made of one-way glass. I probably wasn't the first Carmel Girl to sit in that sterile room – after all, debriefs _are_ a part of the covert operations package. Still, I couldn't help squirming in the hard metal chair – maybe because it was cold in there, maybe because I was nervous, maybe because I was experiencing a slight underwear _situation_. (Note to self: develop a wedgie theory of interrogation – there could totally be something to it!) But the efficient looking man in the wire-rim glasses was too busy twisting knobs and punching keys, trying to figure out what the truth sounded like coming from me, to care about my fidgeting.

"In Carmel Academy, we don't learn interrogation procedures until we're juniors, you know?" I said, but the man just muttered, "Uh-huh".

"And I'm just a sophomore, so you shouldn't really worry about the results coming out all wrong or anything. I'm not immune to the powers of interrogation." _Yet._

"Good to know," he mumbled, but his eyes never left the screens.

"I know that this is standard protocol, so don't be afraid to ask me anything." I was babbling, but couldn't seem to stop. "Really," I said. "Whatever you need to know, just – "

"Do you attend the Carmel Academy for Exceptional and Young Women?" the man blurted and for no reasons I will never understand I said, "Uh...yes?" as if it might be a trick question.

"Have you ever studied the subject of Covert Operations?"

"Yes," I said again, feeling my confidence, or maybe just my training, coming back to me.

"Did your Covert Operations coursework ever take you to the town of Lima, Ohio?"

Even in that sterile room beneath Washington, D.C., I could almost feel the hot, humid night last September. I could almost hear the band and smell the corn dogs.

My stomach growled as I said, "Yes."

Polygraph Guy made notes and studied the bank of monitors that surrounded him. "Is that when you first noticed The Subject?"

Here's the thing about being a spy in love: your boyfriend never has a name. People like Polygraph Guy were never just going to call him Finn. He would always be The Subject, a _person of interest_. Taking away his name was their way of taking him away or what was left of him. So I said, "Yes," and tried not to let my voice crack.

"And you utilized your training to develop a relationship with The Subject?"

"When you say it that – "

"Yes or no, Ms. – "

"Yes!"

Which, I would like to point out, is not nearly as bad as it sounds since, for example, you don't need a search warrant to go through someone's trash. Seriously. Once it hits the curb it is totally fair game – you can look it up.

But somehow I knew that the Office of Operative Development and Human Intelligence was probably far less concerned about the trash thing than it was about what came a_fter_ the trash thing. So I was fully prepared when Polygraph Guy said, "Did The Subject follow you during your Covert Operations final examination?"

I thought about Finn appearing in the abandoned warehouse during finals week, bursting through the walls and commandeering a forklift to "save" me, so I swallowed hard and said, "Yes."

"And was The Subject given memory-modification tea to erase the events of that night?"

It sounded so easy coming from him, so black-and-white. Sure, my mom gave Finn some tea that's supposed to wipe a person's memory blank, erase a few hours of their life, and give everyone else a clean slate. But clean slates are a rare thing in any life – especially a spy's life – so I didn't even let myself wonder for the millionth time what Finn remembered about that night, about me. I didn't torture myself with any of the questions that might never have answers as I sat there, knowing that there is no such things as black-and-white – remembering that my whole life is, by definition, a little bit gray.

I nodded, then muttered, "Yes." Like it or not, I knew I had to say the word out loud.

He made some more notes, punched some keys. "Are you currently involved with The Subject in any way?"

"No," I blurted, because I knew that much was true. I hadn't seen Finn, hadn't spoken to him, hadn't even hacked into his e-mail account over winter break, which, given present circumstances, turned out to be a pretty good thin. (Plus, I had spent the last two weeks in Nebraska with Grandma and Grandpa Corcoran, and they only have dial-up.)

Then the man in the wire-rim glasses looked away from the screen and straight into my eyes. "And do you intend to reinitiate contact with The Subject despite strict rules prohibiting such a relationship?"

There it was: the question I'd pondered for weeks.

Here I was: Rachel the Inconspicuous Berry – the Carmel Girl who had risked the most sacred sisterhood in the history of espionage. For a boy.

"Ms. Berry," Polygraph Guys said, growing impatient, "are you going to reinitiate contact with The Subject?"

"No," I said softly.

Then I glanced back at the screen to see if I was lying.

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><p><strong>AN: There you go! Our first chappy. We haven't got any St. Berry action yet! But we should all wait patiently for the moment to arrive. One more thing, I know that it's a tad bit OOC and I'm working on it. I've got a question for all of you, should I continue this or stop it while it's early? <strong>

**Thank for reading! I'll be posting the next chapter tomorrow. **

**Sincerely,**

**Holodeck of Fame**


	2. Chapter TWO: Conniving Spies

**AN: Hi everyone. I'm so sorry that I didn't get to fulfill my promise. My family and I went away on a vacation for a while and we didn't have any Internet access to where we went. Some kind of "family bonding" time. So... Here it is! The new chapter. Still no Jesse though! But we'll see them in a bit :)**

** **Disclaimer: I don't own Glee. I'm merely borrowing the characters made up by Ryan Murphy and**** I also don't own Gallagher Girls, Ally Carter owns it.**  
><strong>

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><p>Chapter <strong>TWO<strong>

"_Tell me everything!"_ someone cried as soon as I opened the limo door. Sunlight bounced off the snow, blinding me before I could focus on my best friend's face. Quinn's hazel eyes bore into me, her pale, porcelain skin glowed and as usual, she looked like an angel. "How did it go?"

She stepped aside as I went out of the car but didn't pause and wait until I was out of the car. Quinn has always been proper and always acts as if she's royalty but when she gets nervous and feels bad about something, she loses all her composure and becomes this babbling mess.

"Did they make it hard for you?" She said as soon as I was out of the car. Then her eyes went wide and alarmed. _"Did they torture you?"_

Well, of course there wasn't torture; but before I could say so, Quinn exclaimed, "I bet everything went brilliantly!" Most girls grow up wanting to be prom queen. Quinn grew up wanting to kick James Bond's ass and assume his double-0 ranking.

My mom walked around the side of the car as Quinn and I were talking. "Good afternoon, Quinn. I trust you made it back from the airport okay?" And then, despite the bright sun that glowed around us, a shadow seemed to cross Quinn's perfect face.

"Yes, ma'am." She pulled one of my bags from the open trunk. "Thanks again for letting me spend winter break with your family Ms. Corcoran." Most people wouldn't have noticed the slight change in her voice, the faint vulnerability of her smile. But I understand what it's like not to know what continent your parents are on, or when you'll see them again. That is, if ever they get back safely from a mission. My mother was standing right beside me, but all Quinn had was a coded message saying her parents were representing CIA in a joint project with England's M16.

When Mom hugged Quinn and whispered, "You're always welcome with us, sweetheart," I couldn't help thinking about how Quinn had both of her parents most of the time, but right then, neither of us seemed happy with the deal.

We stood in silence for a minute, watching my mother walk away. I could have asked Quinn about her parents. She could have mentioned my dad. But instead I turned to her and said, "I got to meet the woman who bugged the Berlin Embassy in 1962."

And that was all it took to make Quinn smile.

We started for the main doors, pushing through the crowded foyer and up the Grand Staircase. We were halfway to our room when someone…or rather something…stopped us in our tracks.

"Girls," Holly Holiday called as I reached for the door to the East Wing – and the fastest route to our rooms. I tried the knob, but it wouldn't budge.

"It's…" I twisted harder. "…Stuck!"

"It's not stuck." Holly Holiday called again, her soft voice carrying above the noise in the foyer below. "It's locked," she said, as if we have locked doors all the time at Carmel, which, let me tell you, we don't.

"I'm afraid that you can't go in there. The security has spent the entire winter break fixing all the gaps in the security system." Ms. Holiday eyed me and I felt a guilty lump settle in my gut. "And they discovered that the wing had been contaminated with fumes from the chemistry lab and I know that it's Bamboo's fault. Therefore, this corridor is off-limits; you're going to have to find another way to your rooms."

Well, after three and a half years of exploring every inch of the Carmel mansion, I knew better than anyone that there are other ways to our rooms. But before I could mention any of them, Holly Holiday turned back to us and said, "And Ms. Berry, Don't think about of crawling inside vents and walls."

Quinn and I started toward the back stairs, where Andrea Cohen was modeling the boots she'd gotten for Hanukkah. When we passed the sophomore common room we saw Tina Cohen-Chang showing off to Mercedes Jones the derivation of Proadsky Position she'd mastered over the break. We saw girls of every size, shape, and color, and I felt more and more at home with every step. Finally, I pushed open the door to out suite and was halfway through my bed when someone grabbed me from behind.

"Oh my gosh!" Brittany cried. _"I've been so worried!"_

My suitcase landed hard on my foot but I couldn't really cry out in pain because Brittany was still squeezing and though she weighs less than a hundred pounds, Brittany can squeeze pretty hard when she wants to.

"Quinn said you had to go in for questioning," Brittany said. "She said it was _Top Secret!_"

Yeah. Pretty much everything we do is _Top Secret_, as Brittany kindly put it to be, but the novelty has never worn off for her, probably because, unlike Quinn and me and almost half of our classmates, Brittany's parents drive Volvos and serve on PTA committees and have never had to kill a man or anything of that sort.

"Britt, it's okay," I said pulling free. "It was just a debrief. It was normal protocol stuff."

"Oh. So…" Brittany started. "You're not in trouble?" She picked up a massive book. "Because I looked it up for you. Article nine, section seven of the _Handbook of Operative Development_ clearly states that operative in training may be placed on temporary –"

"Britt," Quinn said, cutting her off, "please tell me you didn't spend the morning memorizing that book."

"I didn't memorize it," Brittany said defensively. "I just…read it." Which, when you have a photographic memory like Brittany, is pretty much the same thing, but I didn't say it because she'll just get upset.

Down the hall, I heard Aphasia explaining how Buenos Aires on New Year's Eve is awesome. A pair of freshmen rushed by our door talking who would make a better Carmel Girl: Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Veronica Mars (a debate made much more interesting by the fact that it was taking place in Latin).

Thirty minutes later I was in my uniform, making my way down the spiral staircase, toward the Grand Hall with the rest of the student body. Well, _most_ of the student body.

"Where's Santana?"

"Oh, San's here already." Brittany said, but I knew that much. After all, it was kind of hard to miss Santana's closetful of designer clothes, her stash of ridiculously expensive skin care products (many of which are only legal in Europe), and the fact that someone had very recently been sleeping in her bed.

The last time I'd seen our fourth roommate, she'd been preparing for three weeks in the Swiss Alps with her senator father, her cosmetics-heiress mother, and a celebrity chef from the Food Channel; but Santana Lopez had come back early. And now she was nowhere to be seen.

Quinn was looking around too, staring over the heads of the seventh-graders walking in front of us. "She said she had a bit of research to do in the library, but that was hours ago. I thought she'd meet us down here, but…" she trailed off, still looking.

"You can go ahead without me," I said, stepping away from the crowd and starting down the hall. "I'll find her."

I pulled open the heavy library doors and stepped inside the massive bookshelf-lined room. Comfy leather couches and old oak tables surrounded a roaring fire. And there, in the center of it all, was Santana Lopez. Her head was resting on the latest edition of _Molecular Chemistry Monthly_, pink highlighter marks were on her cheeks, and a puddle of drool had run from her mouth to the wooden desktop.

"Santana," I whispered, reaching out to gently shake her shoulder.

"What? Huh… Rachel?" She struggled upright and blinked at me. "What time is it?" she cried, jumping up and knocking a stack of flash cards to the floor.

I bent down and helped her pick them up. "The welcome back dinner is about to start."

"Great," sarcasm was evident in her voice.

Her glossy black hair stuck out in odd angles and her normally bright eyes were dazed with sleep. Even though I knew better, I couldn't help but say, "So, did you have a nice break?"

She cut me a look that could kill (and will – just as soon as our head scientist, Dr. Howard Bamboo, perfects his look-can-kill technology).

"Sure. Whatever." Santana blew a stray piece of hair away form her beautiful face and pulled the last of the flash cards into a pile. "Right up until my parents saw my grades."

"But you have good grades! You covered nearly two semesters' worth of work. You –"

"Got four A's and three B's," Santana finished for me.

"_I_ know!" I cried. After all, I had personally tutored Santana in the finer points of macroeconomics, molecular regeneration, and conversational Swahili.

"And according to _the Senator_," Santana said, keeping up her unspoken vow never to call her father by name, "there's now way I can earn those A's and B's without cheating."

"But…" I struggled to find the words. "But Carmel Girls don't cheat!" But Senator Lopez didn't know that. I looked at the gorgeous Latina who had flunked out of every prep academy on the East Coast and was now earning A's and B's at a spy school and I realized the senator didn't know a lot of things. Not even his daughter.

The library was empty around us but I still lowered my voice as I said "Santana, you should tell my mom. She could call your dad. We could –"

"No freaking way!" Santana said, as if I never let her have any fun. "You know me Rachel, I already know what I'm going to do."

We'd reached the heavy doors of the library but I paused for the answer. "What?"

"Study." Santana cocked a perfectly plucked eyebrow. "Next time I'll get all A's. It'd piss the senator more." And then smirked as if, after sixteen years of practice, she'd finally found the ultimate way to defy her parents.

I heard voices in the corridor outside, which was strange because at that moment the entire Carmel Academy student body was waiting in the Grand Hall. Something made both Santana and me freeze. And wait. And despite the heavy doors between us, I could clearly hear my mother say, "No, Rachel doesn't know anything."

Well, as a spy (not to mention a girl), there are many, many sentences that will make me stop and listen and needless to say, "Rachel doesn't know anything" is totally one of them!

I leaned closer to the door while, beside me, Santana's big, brown eyes got even bigger. She leaned in and whispered, "_What_ don't you know?"

"She didn't suspect anything?" Mr. Schuester, my dreamy CoveOps instructor, asked.

"_What_ didn't you suspect?" asked Santana.

"I don't know San!" I whispered. Well, of course the whole point of not knowing and not suspecting is that I neither _knew_ nor _suspected_, but I couldn't elaborate more on that when I heard my mother say, "No, she was being debriefed at the time."

I thought back to the long, quiet ride from D.C., the way my mom had stared at the frosty countryside as she'd told me that she hadn't watched my interrogation – that she'd had _things_ to do.

"We can't tell her, Will," Mom said. "Actually, we can't tell anyone. Not until we have to."

"Not about Dalton?"

"Anything. Not about anything. You know how Rachel gets when she knows something." And then Mom sighed. "I just want things to stay as normal as possible for as long as possible."

I looked at Santana. Normal had just taken on a whole new meaning.

After they left, Santana and I slipped back to the Grand Hall and the sophomore table. My mom had already taken her place at the front of the room. I know that Brittany whispered, "What took you so long?" as we sat down. But beyond that, I wasn't sure of anything, because I was having trouble hearing. And talking. And walking.

I know all moms have secrets – mine more than most – and even though I've always known that there are lots of things my mother can never tell me, it had never occurred to me that there were things she might be keeping from me. It may not sound like a big difference, but it is.

Mom gripped the podium in front of her and looked out at the hundred girls who sat ready for the new semester. "Welcome back, everyone. I hope you had a wonderful winter break."

"Rach," Quinn whispered, eyeing both Santana and me. "Something's going on with you two. Isn't it?"

Before I could answer, my mother continued, "I'd like to begin with an exciting news that this semester we will be offering a new course, History of Espionage, taught by Professor Holiday." A big applause filled the Grand Hall as our most liked Professor gave a small wave.

"And also," my mother said slowly, "as many of you have no doubt noticed, the East Wing will be off-limits for the time being, since recent work to the mansion revealed that it has been contaminated by fumes from the chemistry labs."

"Rachie," Brittany said, scooting closer, "you don't look good. You look kind of…pukey."

Well, I do felt kind of 'pukey'.

"And most of all," my mother said, "I want to wish everyone a great semester."

The silence that had filled the hall a moment before evaporated into a chorus of talking girls and passing plates. I tried to turn the volume down, to listen to the thoughts I have. I closed my eyes tightly, forcing the room to go dissolve away, until suddenly, everything became clear.

And I whispered the fact that I'd known for years but only just remembered.

"There is NO ventilation access from the chem labs to the East Wing."

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><p><strong>AN: I really like Brittany's part as Liz. Their personalities seem to fit well. It's just like the original Brittany...but smarter. And I also adore Santana's role. I'm sorry if I haven't lived up to the reader's expectations. This is only my first fic. So, be good. Thanks!<strong>

**Sincerely,**

**Holodeck of Fame.**


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